The Wixen Hogwarts offices had hosted its fair share of chaos over the years — Eliza's short-lived arm-wrestling championship (shut down after three sprained wrists), the infamous "Cursed Quill" incident (no one ever figured out who spelled Sol's essays to read like bad love poetry), and the night Henry accidentally locked Madam Pince inside the reading alcove with a badly timed charm.
But nothing quite matched the slow-brewing storm hovering over them now — a storm made of unspoken resentments, bruised pride, and the collective tension of five fifth-years slogging through O.W.L. year. All of them, except Henry. His O.W.L.s were still a year away, and somehow that fact alone made things worse.
Eliza was pacing, wand spinning between her fingers, muttering under her breath in a tone that suggested she was reliving her latest Quidditch match in slow-motion vengeance mode. Artemis watched from her perch on the window seat, pretending to review Transfiguration notes but only half-aware of the words.
"She definitely did it on purpose," Eliza muttered, mid-pace, mid-grumble.
"You've said that 16 times today," Rosaline noted, flipping her hair over her shoulder with practiced grace. "We get it."
"I don't think you do," Eliza said, jabbing a finger at her twin. "Gwenog Jones launched that Bludger at me like she was aiming for my soul. If my wrist hadn't twisted at the last second, I'd still be in the Hospital Wing drinking Skelegro."
"Some would call that karma," Sol piped up from the corner, where he was balancing his chair on two legs, parchment folded into elaborate paper dragons circling his head. "You did call her a 'Human Quaffle' in front of half the school."
"She is shaped like one!" Eliza snapped.
"Really don't think you're helping your case," Artemis murmured, rubbing her temples.
The door creaked open and Henry slipped in, looking like someone had hexed all the air out of him. He wasn't just tired — he was defeated. Normally, he'd have strolled in with a smirk, ready with some sarcastic gem about his day. Now, he slumped into the seat beside Artemis with the grace of a concussed puffskein.
"Let me guess," Artemis said. "Saw Gwen Stuart in the corridor?"
Henry groaned and let his head thump onto the table. "She was laughing, Artemis. Laughing like nothing happened. Like I didn't catch her snogging Clement Westfield behind Greenhouse Three."
"I'd curse her hair off," Eliza said. "But I'm afraid it would make her look better."
"I still think we should do a full-page spread in the Wixen about her tragic taste in boyfriends," Sol offered.
"No one reads the Wixen for romance drama," Rosaline said primly. "We have standards."
"Low ones," Sol shot back.
Henry grunted, lifting his head just enough to glare at Sol. "Can we not? My self-esteem is already clinging to life."
Artemis gave his knee a quick nudge with hers. "You deserve better. Gwen Stuart has the emotional depth of a teacup."
"A cracked teacup," Rosaline added.
"Filled with spoiled milk," Eliza said.
"Infested with doxies," Sol concluded.
For the first time all day, Henry cracked a smile — faint, but there. "Thanks, team."
From the opposite side of the room, Iris sat half-curled in one of the armchairs, her Herbology book open on her lap but clearly unread. Her silence was louder than Eliza's pacing and Henry's misery combined.
Artemis glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "You okay, Iris?"
Iris forced a smile — the same strained, half-hearted one she'd been wearing for weeks. "Fine."
Liar.
Everyone knew Iris wasn't fine. Her girlfriend, Gwenog, was part of the problem. It was a strange, uncomfortable truth no one wanted to address directly — the way Gwenog's competitive streak didn't just bleed into Quidditch, but into her relationship with Iris. What started as admiration had turned into something… stifling.
Before Artemis could press, the door opened again — this time with Gwenog herself sauntering in, shoulders squared, gaze already fixed on Eliza.
"Oh, brilliant," Eliza muttered. "The Human Quaffle has arrived."
Gwenog's brow twitched. "At least I'm not a glorified goalpost with anger issues."
"Ladies," Artemis said sharply, standing. "This is exactly why we're having a meeting. Sit down."
Eliza and Gwenog exchanged daggered looks before grudgingly sitting — on opposite sides of the room.
"We need to talk," Artemis said. "All of us."
"This isn't about the Bludger, is it?" Gwenog asked, though her tone made it clear she already knew the answer.
"It's about all of it," Artemis said. "We started the WIX because we were tired of the Prophet's nonsense. Because we wanted to write something real. But if we can't even be real with each other — if we're holding grudges and avoiding conversations — how are we supposed to write the truth for anyone else?"
The room fell into an uneasy silence.
Eliza crossed her arms. "You say that like this isn't all Gwenog's fault."
Gwenog's fists clenched. "Oh, please. You've been gunning for me since last year."
"Because you're insufferable!" Eliza shot back. "You think you're the queen of Hufflepuff just because you can throw a Bludger?"
"And you're what? Ravenclaw's gift to broomsticks?" Gwenog snapped.
"Enough!" Iris's voice cracked through the air like a whip. All heads turned to her — uncharacteristically sharp, her hands trembling.
"Iris—" Gwenog started.
"No." Iris stood, shaking her head. "I love you, Gwenog. I do. But you don't get to treat everyone — including me — like they're part of some competition you have to win."
Gwenog's mouth opened, then closed. For once, the brash Hufflepuff was speechless.
"I miss when I felt like your girlfriend," Iris said softly. "Not your sidekick."
Eliza shifted uncomfortably. Even she hadn't expected that.
Gwenog's voice, when it came, was quieter than anyone expected. "I… I didn't know you felt like that."
"How could you?" Iris said, her voice cracking. "You never asked."
No one knew what to say. Eliza glanced at Artemis, who simply shook her head. This was their conversation — no one else's.
Gwenog stood slowly. "I'm sorry." It wasn't perfect, but it was something. "We'll… talk. Later."
Iris nodded, blinking back tears.
To break the tension, Sol cleared his throat. "Well. That was emotionally enriching. Anyone want to talk about how I got stuck in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Office in the last week of July because they thought my fireworks display was a meteor shower?"
Laughter — real, relieved laughter — rippled through the room.
Artemis leaned back against Magnus, who had arrived quietly sometime during the chaos, his shoulder brushing hers. He didn't say much — he rarely did in these kinds of moments — but his presence was steady, grounding her in ways she couldn't explain.
"You okay?" he asked softly, so only she could hear.
Artemis smiled faintly. "Ask me after O.W.L.s."
His hand found hers under the table, his fingers warm and solid. They weren't quite anything yet, but they were something — something that didn't need a name just yet.
The WIX wasn't perfect. They were messy, sharp-edged, and occasionally prone to hexing each other, but they were hers.
And for now, that was enough.
The others drifted out slowly after the meeting, the usual loud goodbyes subdued into murmured "See you at breakfast" and half-hearted shoulder punches. Eliza and Gwenog left together, walking a few paces apart but not quite as stiffly as before, and Artemis took that as a small win.
Iris lingered, trading quiet words with Gwenog at the door, her smile hesitant but real. Rosaline left hand-in-hand with Vivian, the two whispering secrets Artemis didn't need to hear to understand. Sol, after declaring the meeting a "reasonable success, though it lacked snacks," sauntered out humming a suspiciously off-key Celestina Warbeck tune.
That left Magnus.
He stood beside the window, looking out at the dimly lit street below where the lanterns cast long, flickering shadows across the cobblestones. Artemis crossed the room quietly, her steps soft against the wooden floor. When she reached his side, he turned slightly, giving her that familiar half-smile — the one that always seemed to say more than his words ever did.
"Think they'll survive each other?" he asked, his voice low.
"Probably," Artemis said. "We're all stubborn enough to keep trying, even when we're bad at it."
Magnus chuckled softly. "I noticed."
For a moment, they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, the silence between them comfortable in a way Artemis rarely experienced with anyone else. Magnus didn't need to fill every space with words. He just existed beside her, solid and calm, like the tide pulling at the edges of her chaos.
Her fingers brushed against the windowsill, tracing invisible patterns in the worn wood. "Thanks for showing up tonight," she said, not looking at him. "You didn't have to."
Magnus's hand, warm and steady, settled briefly over hers. "I always will."
Her heart stuttered, but she didn't pull away. It wasn't a declaration — not exactly — but it was enough. Enough for now.
The WIX was messy. Her life was messy. But for this moment, in this quiet, flickering space, Artemis could breathe.
And that was enough.
For now.
The walk back to the Hufflepuff dormitory was longer than Gwenog remembered. Maybe it was because Iris had gone ahead — quietly, not angrily, which somehow made it worse — or maybe it was because for the first time in a long while, Gwenog Jones had absolutely no idea what to do.
She was used to knowing. On the pitch, there was always a strategy, a clear goal, a set of steps to victory. In the WIX, her blunt style and sharp instincts cut through the nonsense when others danced around a problem. Even when she was being overbearing, she'd always assumed her friends would forgive her because her heart was in the right place.
But was it?
That doubt followed her through the corridors, its weight unfamiliar and unpleasant.
The next morning, Gwenog skipped breakfast — unheard of for her. Instead, she found herself lingering by the bulletin board in the side hall outside the Great Hall. The old first copy of the Wixen Chronicles with a hand-drawn logo was still there, frayed at the edges but proudly pinned to the corkboard, next to announcements for Gobstones Club and a mysteriously blank parchment that occasionally screamed if someone poked it.
Beneath the board, Magnus sat with his back against the wall, sketchbook balanced on his knee, eyes half-lidded as he doodled a surprisingly intricate owl that might have been wearing a top hat.
"You're up early," he said without looking up.
"So are you," Gwenog countered, though the edge in her voice was missing.
Magnus's pencil continued its quiet scratch. "Didn't feel like the common room."
Gwenog hesitated, leaning against the opposite wall. "I need to ask you something."
"Alright."
"Do you…" She exhaled sharply. "Do you think I'm… overbearing?"
Magnus finally looked up, expression calm — almost too calm, like someone navigating a conversation with a sleeping dragon. "I think," he said carefully, "you're intense. And focused. And sometimes you forget that other people need room to breathe."
Gwenog's shoulders tensed. "Right."
"That doesn't mean you're bad," Magnus added. "It just means you take up a lot of space."
"Is that a nice way of saying I'm a controlling nightmare?"
Magnus's smile was small, but genuine. "You're Gwenog. We all know what we signed up for."
The words should've been comforting, but they weren't — not entirely. She thanked him anyway and wandered off, her mind too full to sit still.
The next conversation was harder. Gwenog found Rosaline outside Greenhouse Three, where the sun caught in her hair, making her look like something out of a Victorian portrait. Vivian was nowhere to be seen, leaving Rosaline alone for once, idly poking at a stubborn vine that refused to coil the right way.
"You don't usually seek me out," Rosaline said without looking up. "Should I be concerned?"
"I need," Gwenog said, voice catching slightly, "to understand."
Rosaline finally glanced up, eyebrow arched. "Understand what?"
"What I'm doing wrong."
To her credit, Rosaline didn't laugh, though her expression softened in clear surprise. "I wouldn't say 'wrong,' exactly."
"Don't sugarcoat it."
Rosaline sighed, brushing dirt off her hands. "Fine. You push. All the time. You push Iris. You push Eliza. You push everyone, because you think if you stop pushing, nothing will happen."
Gwenog scowled. "But things do happen. We've done amazing work."
"We have," Rosaline agreed. "But we've also spent a lot of time cleaning up after the storms you create."
That stung. More than Gwenog wanted to admit. "Why didn't anyone say anything?"
Rosaline gave her a look so dry it could've ignited on contact. "You don't exactly make it easy for people to tell you to sit down and shut up."
Fair point.
Before Gwenog could retreat into defensive silence, Rosaline touched her arm — a brief, fleeting gesture. "You're brilliant, Gwen. But if you're going to lead — really lead — you need to leave space for other people's brilliance, too."
It wasn't a slap, but it felt like one. A necessary one.
Next was Henry, because Henry was the safest.
She found him outside the Owlery, tossing breadcrumbs to an overly ambitious school owl that kept trying to steal his whole sandwich. Gwenog sat beside him on the low stone wall, shoving her hands into her pockets.
"Should I be worried?" Henry asked, watching her warily.
"I'm trying to do this thing," Gwenog said, "where I stop being a self-absorbed nightmare."
"Can't relate," Henry said, cheerfully sarcastic.
Gwenog snorted. "Shut up."
Henry tore his sandwich in half, handing her a piece. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the breeze cool but not unpleasant.
"Do you think I'm too much?" Gwenog asked suddenly.
"Oh, absolutely," Henry said without hesitation. "But so am I. So's Eliza. That's why we work."
"Except we're not working."
Henry shrugged. "Not right now. But you're trying. That's more than a lot of people would do."
"Thanks," she said quietly.
"Also, for what it's worth," Henry added, "I think you and Iris work too — when you remember you're supposed to be on the same side."
Gwenog swallowed hard. "Yeah."
She left Artemis for last, because Artemis had always been the hardest for Gwenog to read. Smart without being showy, confident without being cruel, and somehow always three steps ahead — Artemis was the one person Gwenog had always felt both proud of and slightly intimidated by.
She found Artemis in the WIX office after hours, curled in the corner with a mug of tea, parchment scattered around her like leaves in the wind.
"Room for one more?" Gwenog asked, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.
"Always." Artemis didn't even look up.
Gwenog sat, unsure where to start. "I'm trying."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Artemis set her tea down, giving Gwenog her full attention. "You think this is the first time I've watched someone realize they're not the center of the universe?"
Gwenog winced. "Ouch."
"It's not a bad thing." Artemis's tone softened. "It just means you care enough to want to do better."
"I do," Gwenog said quietly. "But I don't know how."
"Start smaller," Artemis suggested. "Listen before you react. Ask instead of assume. And maybe — just maybe — let other people be right sometimes."
Gwenog sighed. "That sounds… hard."
"It is." Artemis smiled. "But you're Gwenog Jones. You'll survive."
For the first time all day, Gwenog felt like she might.
The lake was still, the water dark enough to swallow the sky whole, only the occasional ripple from a daring fish disturbing the glass-like surface. The last traces of sunset clung to the horizon, soft gold fading into dusky blue. Gwenog stood a few feet away from where Iris sat, heart thudding unevenly against her ribs.
It had always been easier to launch herself into the sky, to fling her whole body at a problem, to fight until something broke and the path forward became clear. But this wasn't the pitch, and Iris wasn't something to conquer.
She was someone Gwenog desperately didn't want to lose.
"Hey," Gwenog said, her voice quieter than she meant.
Iris glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "Hey."
The way Iris was sitting — knees pulled to her chest, chin resting atop them — made her look so much smaller than usual. Gwenog hated that she had put that look there, the guarded tension Iris wore like a cloak.
Gwenog sat beside her, careful not to sit too close, but not so far that it felt like she was retreating. "Mind if I join you?"
"You already did." But the corner of Iris's mouth twitched, just slightly.
Gwenog exhaled, relieved that there was at least that — the smallest flicker of warmth still there. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that was heavy, but not unbearable. Gwenog could feel the weight of her own mistakes — not just the Bludger, not just the comments — but all the times she had dragged Iris into her storm without pausing to see if she wanted to be there.
"I'm sorry," Gwenog said, her fingers knotting together in her lap. "I've been…"
"A lot," Iris finished, her voice soft.
Gwenog barked a short laugh. "That's putting it nicely."
"You've always been a lot," Iris said, the edge of her smile softening. "I knew that before we ever kissed."
Gwenog's stomach flipped at the memory — the awkward, breathless, nerve-wracking first kiss under the misletoe Gwenog had sneaked into the Dawson's new year party to kiss Iris sneakily, Iris's hands trembling slightly but still pulling her in with quiet determination. That kiss had been everything Gwenog wasn't — soft, careful, and delicate in ways she had never thought herself capable of.
"I just…" Gwenog swallowed, her voice growing rough. "I thought if I kept pushing you to be amazing — to be the best — you'd see what I see when I look at you."
Iris turned, fully facing her now, her eyes searching Gwenog's face. "I don't need to be the best, Gwen. I just need to be… me. And sometimes, it felt like there wasn't room for that. Like you already had this idea of who I was supposed to be — your perfect co-captain, your brilliant girlfriend, the person who could keep up with you every second."
Gwenog's chest ached. "I never wanted you to feel like you had to keep up. I just—"
"You wanted me by your side." Iris's voice was gentle, understanding even through the hurt.
Gwenog nodded, throat tight. "Yeah."
Iris's fingers found hers, sliding between them like they belonged there — and they did. Gwenog had held those hands countless times, after matches, during late-night walks through the castle, under the table during tense WIX meetings when her temper threatened to boil over. And yet, it still felt new, still made her pulse stumble every time.
"I love you, you know," Gwenog said, voice barely above a whisper.
Iris's smile — small, real, and unmistakably hers — broke through the remaining tension. "I love you too. Even when you're being a Quidditch-obsessed menace."
"I prefer 'force of nature,'" Gwenog said, trying for a grin but only managing something lopsided.
Iris leaned her head on Gwenog's shoulder, her warmth seeping through Gwenog's robes, grounding her in the quiet. "We'll figure it out. You and me. We just… have to talk more. Before we both explode."
Gwenog rested her cheek against Iris's hair, breathing her in — faint traces of lavender shampoo and the fresh scent of earth from her earlier greenhouse work. "I'll do better," Gwenog murmured. "I promise. You can hex me if I get too unbearable."
"Deal," Iris said, her fingers giving Gwenog's hand a soft squeeze. "But maybe just a Tickling Charm. I'm not ready to commit to full-body boils."
Gwenog snorted. "Fair enough."
The lake stretched out before them, the surface rippling with faint gusts of wind. They sat in silence for a long while, not because there was nothing to say, but because some things didn't need words — the quiet weight of forgiveness, the soft edges of love, the relief of knowing they were still them, no matter how many storms they had to weather.
The first stars appeared above them, and Gwenog tilted her head to look up. "You ever think about what we'll be like after Hogwarts? When we're not just WIX and Quidditch and essays?"
Iris hummed thoughtfully. "Sometimes. I think about opening a greenhouse, maybe. Somewhere small. Growing weird plants nobody's ever heard of."
Gwenog smiled. "I could open a training pitch right next door. Scare your customers off with rogue Bludgers."
"Perfect," Iris said, laughing softly. "We'd make a great team. Chaos and calm."
Gwenog squeezed her hand again. "Yeah, we would."
The night air wrapped around them, cool and calm, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, Gwenog Jones felt like she could breathe.
With Iris beside her, she could figure out the rest.